


Always

by DeVereWinterton



Series: Miss Fisher's Year of Quotes 2018 [3]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Devotion, F/M, First Time, Love, MFMM Year of Quotes, Montgomery - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 05:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14013693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: 'Before he’d ever had the chance to sample the flavour of her skin, to savour the smell of her perfume or to swallow the essence of her ecstasy, he’d worshipped her body from afar.'





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> My March contribution for the MFMM Year of Quotes. This was meant to go somewhere else entirely, and now it’s this.

_‘I don't want sunbursts or marble halls, I just want you.’_

— L.M. Montgomery

 

Before he’d ever had the chance to sample the flavour of her skin, to savour the smell of her perfume or to swallow the essence of her ecstasy, he’d worshipped her body from afar.

He supposed, if he were to put into words his devotion to her lithe physique, he’d have to start with her feet. Even though the Victorian era was now well and truly a thing of the past, his noble heart would still skip a beat at the sight of her bare feet. Their arch was as elegant as the way she – quite literally – carried herself. Her poise and perfection fascinated him as she executed a perfect turn, or ran after a criminal in heels. Always two steps ahead of him, and dressed to the nines whilst doing so.

He once said he’d never describe the fashion world as frivolous ever again, and he’d meant it. He loved the sight of her in heels far too much to ridicule them. They gave her a slight lift, a little boost. They elongated the lines of her body, the shape of her legs, the length of her confident stride.

They made her toned derrière look positively delectable.

Bare feet, to him, illustrated a modicum of trust. A comfort that existed between them. An intimacy that would be considered inappropriate by some. The image of her tiny toes, her nails painted a bright red – the same colour as her lush lips – had stirred something deep inside of him that had long lain dormant.

He did not need to wonder what it would feel like to hold one of her delicate feet in his large hands. He knew the sensation by heart. Not long after her return to Melbourne, they’d chased a burglar down a narrow alley and she’s twisted her ankle pretty badly. She’d brushed it off, not wanting to appear weak, but she had ‘succumbed’ to his careful offer of a massage that night in her parlour. She’d been accusing him of losing her balance after he’d bumped into her as they ran down the street, and she felt he owed it to her to ‘ease her slight discomfort’. He’d been wound too tightly to ponder the possible implications of that statement.

The way she’d twisted and moaned on the chaise longue as he’d gently applied pressure to the sole of her bare foot – loosening the strained tissues – would be forever ingrained in his memory. The quiet hiss as he’d passed a thumb over her dainty ankle. The softly uttered surprised gasp as he’d gently massaged the aggravated attachments of her calf muscles at the back of her leg. He didn’t dare venture further up, for fear of losing himself completely in the feel of her soft skin, although judging from her slightly flushed countenance he rather doubted she would have minded terribly.

Her skin was like marble; pale, yet the veins running through it the purest evidence of life, of structure, of beauty. She often reminded him of a marble sculpture he’d seen in Paris during the war, of her accidental namesake – _La Phryné_ – by French sculptor Alexandre Falguière, although he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of knowing her at the time. The sculpture had appeared as though in motion, as though the marble woman before him had bared her body to him, teasing him with vast expanses of skin, rubbing delicate thighs together sensually. This Phryne – made of ivory and marble – had been just as mobile, as unable to remain still, and as confident in her sexuality as the woman made of flesh and blood.

As his thoughts wandered upwards towards her knees, so would the hemlines of her dresses. Not too long ago, the hemline and the cut of a white tennis-dress had revealed far more of her shapely limbs than ever before within the privacy of his office, and it had nearly bested him. The slivers of glorious thighs had played peek-a-boo with his sanity and he’d nigh on entirely missed out on her theory about Belinda.

This hadn’t been the first occasion during which his attention had slipped towards matters of the flesh, when it really should have been focused elsewhere.

As she’d taken off her crèpe de Chine pants at the beach in Queenscliff, he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe. The sight of those creamy, long legs dressed in her navy, almost deep purple bathing suit with red trimmings had been a sight to behold. Her thighs had looked so soft, glowing in the sunlight beaming down upon them, and he could almost imagine himself stroking them, his fingers inching upwards.

He’d been terribly grateful for the extra fabric preserving his modesty, as he’d hastily plunged himself headfirst into the cold waves when she’d caught him staring at her.

Slightly bent over as she’d been, taking off her light trousers, it had made his hands itch with the urge to grab a hold of her curvaceous hips. To trace the curve of her waist with his thumbs with increasing urgency, to tease the small of her back, to run his hands over her shapely arse, to knead the wonderful globes of her behind. The feeling of her supple flesh cradled in his palms came to him, often and unbidden, as she’d invited him to steady her anytime. It had been increasingly difficult to keep his hands to himself after that incident.

She’d never had no such difficulty. She’d always touched him as though he were already familiar to her, as though he was already long familiar with her touch, but never truly overstepping. It’d both frightened and comforted him. Her hands spoke a language all of their own; they’d flutter about with purpose when she was angry, they’d tighten on the steering wheel of her Hispano-Suiza whenever she got excited. They’d stroke and caress him whenever the opportunity presented itself (and even a couple of times when it had not). His lapels, the crook of his elbow. His ties.

The way they’d wound around his neck as he’d teased her with an imaginary spider. He’d often wondered what could have occurred, had Frederick Burn not interrupted them. Would she have kept her hands there, gently teasing the short hairs at his nape? Would he have found the courage to squeeze her hips? To push his hands under her blouse to feel the warm skin of her taut abdomen?

He’d fantasized about her muscular belly, about the way her abdominal muscles had rippled slightly when she’d raised the feather fans to expose her belly and breasts to an admiring audience, himself included. He’d wanted to caress the porcelain softness of her belly with featherlight touches, until he would reach the sensitive undersides of her breasts.

Would she like it if he were to bite her nipples, freed of diamond appliqués?

Her slender neck was a true piece of art in and of itself. It was graceful, a truly beautiful pedestal for an even more divine face. Her scarves had nearly driven him to distraction on numerous of occasions. The way they exposed her neck, or placed a particular focus on it, or kept parts of it hidden from his hungry gaze. He’d dared to trace the curve of her neck all the way down to her collarbone once, to rest close to the gentle swell of her breast, and his skin had burned at the heated sensation. He admired the elegant lines and the hollow of her throat, had wanted to place an open-mouthed kiss there in silent appraisal and encouragement when she’d attempted to put a proper knot in his tie and had failed miserably. He liked to think he might have done so, had George Sanderson not chosen this moment to interrupt them.

She’d spoken ill of Sanderson right after that – he couldn’t blame her, not really – and at the time it had been more than he could handle. She had a mouth on her that often spoke the truth, that wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and voice her thoughts and opinions. Sometimes, a bit of the Collingwood-girl she’d once been (and still was) managed to seep through, and he loved to entertain the thought that she was comfortable enough around him to allow for her facade to slip.

Her lips were full and frequently covered in red-waxed lipstick. He preferred them bare, but the bright and bold red bespoke of her zealous and feisty character in such a way that he could not do anything else but adore it. They had been surprised against his own when he’d kissed her ‘in the line of duty’, soft and yielding as he’d held her to him at the airfield, her mischievous tongue curious and probing.

The way she would bite down on her lower lip in either restraint or contemplation as she would eye him conspicuously had made him want to bite down on it himself, more times than he could count.

And those brilliant eyes of hers. They would sparkle with excitement, or grow dull with sadness and grief, cloudy and murky in confusion or misunderstanding. But they would always be full of life, as though they held all the answers of the world, hidden within their green-grey depths. She challenged him on a daily basis to dive in and come find them.

She could most likely _give_ him the world, if she so desired – she was Phryne Fisher, after all, and she worked in mysterious ways – but it would be of no use to him. She could offer him the continents on a silver platter, complimented by a glass filled to the brim with the many wonders of the oceans, holding the moonlight in her hand to create an intimate ambiance, and it would hold little appeal to him. It wasn’t that he was an ungrateful man, but what good was the whole of the world when she herself was his entire universe?

He didn’t want exclusive drinks (although he’d be willing to compromise on the whiskey). He had no need for extravagant clothes, or luxurious getaways. He had no desire for sunbursts or marble halls.

He just wanted _her_.

Body and soul and heart and mind.

 

 

 

“Jack? Are you still with me?” Her question is laced with mild concern, and he realises he has stilled inside of her, his arms straining to keep his weight off of her.

A soft sigh escapes him as he meets her loving gaze in the darkness that surrounds them, the everlasting twinkle in her eyes unmistakably intrigued. He lowers his body to hers, until his chest softly brushes her breasts.

“Always, Miss Fisher,” he promises her, before he starts to move.

 


End file.
